Aftertaste

His stomach grovelled for sustenance
His skull rattled like marbles in a spray can
He didn’t dare guess the aftertaste marinating his pallet and tongue
With bladder on the verge of rupture
And eyes aching: blinded my the midday sun
Through the protest of tiredness, he managed to trudged towards the bathroom.
Feet more dragging a slow shuffle upon the cold tiled floor than a proper step.
The disheveled face in the mirror winked back,
“That was the best night yet!”

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About Penlateral

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This entry was posted in humour, poems, poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Aftertaste

  1. Penlateral says:

    I think we’ve all been there before. Thank you again kindly, I am glad you liked it

  2. magicpoet01 says:

    Had to post on Facebook!

  3. magicpoet01 says:

    Love ‘His skull rattled like marbles in a spray can’ – great simile, unexpected. Love the aftertaste ‘marinating’ – once again a perfect choice of verb, not predictable. After all that misery he can still say, “That was the best night yet!” Grrr!

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